Welcome Back
by Alice Foxworth
Summary: Sherlock gets a call from Mycroft to tell him Molly is dead. Sherlock doesn't believe him and sets out on a mission to go find her.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock drove the vehicle down an abandoned alleyway and pulled to a halt by a door in the side of the building; abandoned, just the same as the alleyway. He breathed a deep sigh before placing his hand on the door handle and stepping out and looking around him. He had received the call not an hour prior. He had known immediately that something was horribly wrong. The tone in his voice had been…_contrite._ Sherlock's brother was rarely remorseful. He was rarely ever sorry. This had been the main reason for Sherlock's distress.

He entered the warehouse, staying near the entrance, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. He tried not to look at the man standing a few meters away from him. He knew he would be made fun of enough in a few moments. All of his life, he had shut feelings out, he had put his mind on lockdown against all emotions, but this, this was more than enough doubt and suspicion to knock a huge hole in the walls he'd built. And this fact was reason for shame to him, to the man in front of him.

Sherlock knew he had to face him. He willed his mind to keep calm and shoved all of the sadness and panic and doubt to the back of his mind. He straightened up. "Hi."

"Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up to meet the eyes of his brother. He was greeted with a raise of the eyebrows as if to say 'it's been a while, and that's how you choose to greet me?' This questioning look melted into a remorseful look, one that matched the tone his voice had held on the phone earlier.

Sherlock was hit with a pang of familiarity. "I've seen that look before." The last time his brother had given him that look had been when John had been standing on the edge of a bridge, seven months previous, just before Sherlock had come back.

_"John!" Sherlock screamed. He couldn't go to his friend, he was restrained by the police officers, but nothing could shield Sherlock from seeing his friend in pain. John held his head high and took a deep breath before spreading his arms, a salute to the dark-haired consulting detective behind him…but he didn't jump. Sherlock watched as John's chest rose and fall faster, his jaw clenched, his eyes closed and he tried to shut out the world before finishing everything, but he didn't. He didn't jump._

But Sherlock had been with John that morning. It wasn't John who was in trouble; it wasn't John that Mycroft was worried about. The only other person that it could be – "Molly?" Sherlock asked, his heart leaping at the mention of his partner. She had meant so much to him. She was the cover of Sherlock's faked death, she was the constant when he was in hiding, she had been everything to him, and now…

Mycroft pursed his lips. "She's dead."

_No. No, no, no, no._ "No," Sherlock shook his head. She couldn't be. She was brave, she was strong, and she couldn't be dead. It wasn't possible. "No, no." He let out a small laugh that was only half meant. That couldn't be true. He challenged the statement by meeting Mycroft's eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock scoffed. Sorry? Mycroft should have protected her. Sorry? He swallowed the huge lump in his throat, reminding himself to stay neutral. She didn't matter. She didn't count. Still, "What happened?" He needed to know how her last moments were spent.

Mycroft frowned and wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes. "You tell me."

A memory that had been deleted from Sherlock's memory flashed through his mind and Sherlock grimaced.

_Sherlock brought his knee up into the bigger man's stomach and turned to one of the two men left standing. Molly's flat had been invaded by three big men. They obviously worked for someone, maybe even for Moriarty. Sherlock never found out, for the only thought that crossed his mind was 'protect Molly'. Sherlock swung his fist, but the man dodged. Molly screamed from the other side of the room and Sherlock turned to see her being carried away by the last gang member. Sherlock turned back, with a mind to knock out the man he was currently fighting and then proceed to rescue Molly, but he was caught by surprise when the man's fist connected with his jaw and he dropped to his hands and knees, head spinning, vision blurring, and ears ringing. He could still hear Molly's pleas for help. His attacker kicked the downed man in his stomach and Sherlock groaned, now breathless. He collapsed completely, watching as the two men left the flat with Molly in tow. He heard a car engine start and gathered enough energy to follow them out the door and tried to chase after the car. Before he even got out the door, the car was already down the street. Sherlock could do nothing._

Sherlock's eyes began watering, tears trying to pour out, but he held them back. "I – " He started, but couldn't finish.

Mycroft spoke what was on Sherlock's mind. "You miss her." Sherlock nodded as Molly's words flashed through his mind, _I don't count_, and his assurance, _You do count. _Sherlock wanted to punch something, to tell Mycroft he was lying and go to Molly's flat to assure himself she was still okay, that she was still alive, but he knew he wouldn't find her there. There was complete truth in Mycroft's words.

Mycroft scolded his little brother, "Caring is _not_ an advantage," and an order, "from now on, you will stay out of this."

Sherlock knew his response wasn't truthful, he would obviously go and find Molly to prove to himself she wasn't actually dead, but still, he tried to console Mycroft, "Okay."

Mycroft's last statement to him surprised him greatly. "Welcome back." It was like a haunting reminder to Sherlock of the world he lived in and the reunion with danger and death after two years of being gone. "Time to move on."

Sherlock waited until Mycroft was gone before leaving himself. He gritted his teeth and swallowed his fear before getting into his car. He pulled out his phone, opening a picture taken three years before at the Christmas party at Baker Street. He and John and Molly all stood together for the picture. It had been one of the few times Sherlock had actually smiled in a picture, but of course he hadn't meant it. Now he regretted not meaning it. He looked at Molly's smiling face and gripped the phone tighter.

_If there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me._

She had been everything to him.

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A/N: Hello everyone! So, I know this isn't exactly what everyone else is publishing (season 3 stuff), but it is inspired by Nyah86Production's 'BBC Sherlock - Welcome Back' video, which was brilliantly done, and you should check it out. This first chapter is basically the script of the video with a little bit of added commentary. I plan on making this a multi-chapter fic, so let me know if you like it!

All credit goes to Moftiss and Cumbersbumberswumbers and Martin Freeman and of course, Nyah86Production


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Sherlock returned to 221b, John knew something was wrong. He tried to confront the man about it, but was turned away with an 'I'm fine' as Sherlock headed through the sitting room to his bedroom. John watched in wonder as Sherlock vanished into the room and slammed the door dismissively. He was left sitting in his chair, paper in hand, brow furrowed in curiosity, but he pushed it away. When Sherlock was in this mood, there was no way to get him out of it.

In his room, Sherlock perched on the edge of his bed, his scarf and coat shed and strewn across the floor. His fingers were steepled in front of his mouth, and his brain raced.

_Moriarty, criminal network, Carl Powers, villain, consulting criminal, murder, Jeff Hope, sponsor, fan, James, Molly, gay, IT, hollow, cab driver, crown jewels, Adler, staying alive…_

Sherlock's mind palace spun around in his head. He sorted every fact, every detail about Moriarty, about his criminal network, about everything relating to the man and his business. Of course it was Moriarty that had something to do with Molly's death, or rather, as Sherlock would like to believe, her disappearance. Surely, she wasn't dead. She couldn't be…

Sherlock stopped himself. He needed to think logically, to separate himself from any distraction. He had to think of Molly as simply another ordinary person.

The morgue! If Molly had disappeared, surely her work would have some record of her not being there. He jumped up again and picked up his coat and scarf again before retracing his steps back out of the door into the sitting room, ignoring the John's questions, and leaving 221b, hailing a taxi.

~xxx~

"How did you know, Mr. Holmes?"

One of the morgue attendants who usually worked alongside Molly had been there today, so Sherlock had (as nicely as he could) asked if Molly had called in sick or if she was on vacation.

"So she _is_ gone?" Sherlock asked impatiently. The conversation had been started with Molly's partner explaining why he had come into work late (his girlfriend _26, pregnant, works in a café_ had insisted he stay for another hour), so Sherlock was already annoyed with him.

"Yeah, she's been gone since yesterday, I guess. Didn't call in sick or anything, just didn't come to work. I thought it was a bit strange, so I called her up. Some guy answered and said she wouldn't be in for a while. Said she was 'a bit tied up…strange guy…'

Sherlock didn't wait for anything else. He just walked away, leaving the attendant still talking. He made his way down the hallway to the morgue's locker room and scanned the lockers in front of him. Molly's was easy to pick out _lab coat caught in the door, smell of cat treats and lavender, picture of a cat hanging out_ and he picked the lock easily and looked inside. It looked as though she had left like it was an ordinary day _lab coat left, no bag, the jumper typically hung was gone, books at the bottom, the top book currently being read_. Sherlock spotted a small metal capsule at the top of the locker and picked it up. It was the lipstick Molly had worn the day he'd met John. A quick peek at the cosmetic inside showed it hadn't been used in a while, maybe not even since that day, but still it stayed here_ sentiment_.

Sherlock heard footsteps down the hall and stuffed the lipstick in his coat pocket and slammed the door of Molly's locker shut. He pushed past the man entering the locker room and headed back down the stairs.

_Molly had no intention of leaving London that day. She would never desert one of her books. She'd rather die before having to miss her stories. Why, then, would her book still be at the morgue? Why take everything with her except the book?_

Sherlock opted out of taking a cab back and simply turned his coat collar up against the brisk autumn air, walking down the street toward Molly's flat. Maybe he could find more answers there.

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A/N: Hello again! I sincerely hope you all checked Nyah86Production's video out after last chapter! This chapter starts the plot past the video. It's a bit short, I know. I hope you enjoy! Next chapter will be up next Friday!

All credit goes to Moftiss, Mr. Cumberbatch, Mr. Freeman, and of course, Nyah86Productions


	3. Chapter 3

_Door scraped on one side, keyhole decorated with little scratch marks, foot marks on the bottom of the door, wear on the paint from opening the door without using the handle, handle dulled from weather, hinges a little rusty._

The lock on Molly's door was picked almost as easily as the one on her locker. Sherlock noticed the squeaking of the door as he slowly pushed it opening, scanning every inch of the door, the doorway, the hallway leading to the kitchen, even the coat closet by the door.

_Scuff marks from men's shoes, two men, first wearing Italian loafers, size 13, has two dogs going by the absence of scuffing where the shoes would have bite marks, second man wearing simple trainers, black-soled, size 9, works in construction._

Every detail was filed away in Sherlock's mind palace. Every slight mark or bump was cataloged in one glance and these pieces were fit together, jumbled up, shaken a little, fit together again, just to find a whole picture of who could have taken Molly, why they would have taken her, and where they could have gone.

Sherlock refused to believe Molly was dead. The last time his brother had told him that someone was dead, it had been Irene Adler, and both times, she had cheated death. Even Sherlock himself was familiar with the art of cheating death, as proven by his act just over two years ago. Moriarty, as Sherlock had spent the last two years proving, was not alive anymore, and his network was significantly weakened, enough that Sherlock could return home to London, and to John.

John hadn't taken the news well, he'd punched Sherlock three times and not spoken to him for the next week and a half, but when Sherlock bumped into him 'by accident' in the subway, John had finally had to confront him. They were now living in 221b again, which Sherlock was grateful for, and John still worked at the clinic, and Sherlock and John still took cases from the Scotland Yard.

Lestrade was well, too. After Sherlock had faked his death, Lestrade had fired both Anderson and Donovan himself _thank god_ and had re-trained his entire staff. They had certainly scared most of the criminals in London out of committing crimes, because the crime rate had decreased significantly. Sherlock had to say, he was proud of the initiative taken.

Molly had been effected the least by Sherlock coming back, or at least Sherlock had thought so. She had known he was alive, she had known all along that he had only faked his death and she didn't need to mourn. However, Sherlock had underestimated the danger he'd placed her in. When the two of them had been attacked the first time, six days after Moriarty's death on St. Bart's rooftop, Sherlock had been surprised.

_Sherlock brought his knee up into the bigger man's stomach and turned to one of the two men left standing. Molly's flat had been invaded by three big men. They obviously worked for someone, maybe even for Moriarty. Sherlock never found out, for the only thought that crossed his mind was 'protect Molly'. Sherlock swung his fist, but the man dodged. Molly screamed from the other side of the room and Sherlock turned to see her being carried away by the last gang member. Sherlock turned back, with a mind to knock out the man he was currently fighting and then proceed to rescue Molly, but he was caught by surprise when the man's fist connected with his jaw and he dropped to his hands and knees, head spinning, vision blurring, and ears ringing. He could still hear Molly's pleas for help. His attacker kicked the downed man in his stomach and Sherlock groaned, now breathless. He collapsed completely, watching as the two men left the flat with Molly in tow. He heard a car engine start and gathered enough energy to follow them out the door and tried to chase after the car. Before he even got out the door, the car was already down the street. Sherlock could do nothing._

He'd gone to find her. He had searched for sixteen hours straight before a member of his homeless network had heard cries for help from an old shop in a bare part of town and directed Sherlock in to find a cold and bruised Molly. After tea and sleep, Molly told Sherlock about how the men put her in a car and used chloroform to knock her out. When she'd woken up, she was in the shop, and a man was asking her for information about some missing criminal profiler and an unsolved government murder a few months before. Sherlock had ignored the information, focusing on his plan to weaken, if not destroy, Moriarty's network so that this will never happen again.

Now, Sherlock was mentally beating himself up over the fact that Molly was missing and there was no doubt in his mind that Moriarty's network was still angry and fervent about Molly's involvement in not just Sherlock's survival, but Moriarty's death as well.

Every piece was tried in every scenario to fit the reasons Sherlock had in his mind, and it was not long before Sherlock had formulated the 'how' in Molly's kidnapping. However, he could not figure out where they would have taken her and why they would want her.

Sherlock rooted through Molly's closet _jumpers closest to the front, comfort always in mind_ and her bathroom _not concerned with looking fancy, bare minimum, lavender shampoo, lavender body wash, minimal makeup, bare cupboards_ and her kitchen _again, bare minimum, tea, leftovers, only enough dishes for one or two people_ and anywhere else he might find something of use. He finally found her laptop shoved underneath the couch _worried about a break-in, holds her laptop as more valuable than anything else_ and opened it up.

_Password protected. Laptop is four years old, scratched up quite a bit, dusty screen, faded keys_. Sherlock looked around. _Pictures of Molly and her cat, pictures of Molly and her family from eight to nine years ago, pictures of Molly and her mom from seven years ago to last year, polished stone with two dates on it._ **DonHooper57 **_access granted._ Sherlock smirked: predictable, just as always. He foraged through the contents of her computer, finding nothing interesting except one folder which was also password protected, labeled 'Autopsy 11/4'. Sherlock tried the same password with no success. He tried other possibilities, such as 'tobyhooper', 'tobycat', 'mollyhooper', and others, all with the same result.

Sherlock set the computer down on the table in the kitchen and began to pace, wracking his brain for any other possible passwords. As each came up, he typed them in, and each time, the computer kindly told him the password he'd entered was not correct, to which Sherlock eventually shouted, "Yes, alright!" at the machine. The only reason Sherlock eventually stopped was the vibrating he felt in his coat pocket. He pulled out his phone and answered John's worried text dismissively. He put the phone back in his pocket and picked up the computer, closing it, and heading out the front door. As he passed through the hallways, he studied each mark and each dent again, just to assure himself he hadn't missed anything.

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A/N: Good morning! or Good afternoon! or Good evening! or Good night! to all of my wonderful wonderful followers, favoriters, reviewers, and readers. You are all so wonderful! Thank you for reading my story, offered humbly from my grateful heart. I hope you are all having a wonderful week and please enjoy!

Next chapter, again, will be up next week (I already have it written, I'm so proud of myself!)

All rights and credit go to Moftiss and Benedict and Martin, and most importantly, Nyah86Productions (you should still all go and check out her video)


	4. Chapter 4

When John heard the door of 221b open, finally, he jumped up to welcome Sherlock home. When the detective actually crossed into the flat, John changed his mind, seeing that the detective was busy thinking. He sighed softly to himself and prepared for a long night of either violin music or strange banging noises against the walls.

As predicted, Sherlock went straight to his violin after hanging up his coat and scarf. He began with a simple scale, which transcended into a melancholy song that made John want to cry. The song seemed to stretch on, and at one point, John began to wonder if the song was an actual song, or if Sherlock was improvising every note. Even when the sun descended past the buildings across the street, casting a shadow through the windows of 221b, even when Mrs. Hudson turned off the lights downstairs, even when John's head began to loll and drop to his chest, even when he began to snore softly from his chair, still Sherlock's despondent tune sounded throughout the flat.

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock had stopped playing, but had obviously not slept; his hair was wild and frizzy, his clothes were wrinkled, and he was sitting in his chair across from John, eyes closed, fingers steepled.

John stood from his chair, groaning as his back protested and his neck creaked, in order to put the kettle on. From the kitchen, he watched Sherlock, the pale face stone and unmoving. His eyes, however, flittered back and forth, scanning the mind palace, ordering brain cells about, pushing the curtain of sleep back every so often. John could literally see the gears in Sherlock's indescribable and incomprehensible head turning, squeaking, groaning with inhuman effort to keep up with the lightning-fast neutrons firing back and forth, banging against the side of his head and back, keeping the mental capacities alive and working.

Cup of tea in hand, John retired upstairs to his own room, stretching his neck and arms and sitting down on the side of the bed. He had left his phone on his bedside table the evening before, and now he checked his messages. One message was from Mike Stamford, one from Harry, one from Mary, his new girlfriend.

Mary was nice. She had come to work at the surgery where John had worked a few months before Sherlock had returned from who knows where. She and John had immediately clicked, going out to dinner after their shifts, grabbing a coffee beforehand, even bringing lunch to one another when one of them couldn't get away from work for long enough to snag some chips from the restaurant next door. Sherlock hadn't been introduced to her yet, and frankly, John was scared to see the day come when Sherlock Holmes met Mary Morstan. They were both so headstrong and independent, the only difference being that Mary was nice.

John decided on a shower and a change of clothes and headed to the bathroom to do so. When he came out, hair soaked and spiked in different directions, he felt refreshed and awake. He didn't have work that day, so he opted for a good book instead. He stepped down the stairs and into the sitting room, where Sherlock was still hard at work, inert, in his armchair.

John scanned the bookshelves around the fireplace and picked up a book on medical history. Boring, yet still intriguing to a doctor. He sat in his chair again and opened to the first of hundreds of pages.

Not a single word was exchanged, not a sound was made, save for the occasional rustle of paper as John flipped the pages in his book. Sherlock sat, frozen, in the same place he had been the entire day, and when John finished the textbook, he looked up, amazed at the statue-like composure of his flatmate and the lack of need to use the loo or eat anything.

John furrowed his brow and waved his hand in front of Sherlock's face. He hadn't expected a reply, but when Sherlock lowered his hands just slightly and murmured, "John, don't do that. I'm not dead," John jumped a little and muttered an apology before sitting back in his chair. His stomach rumbled and he looked at the clock: 5:44. He should probably get something to eat.

After searching through bare cupboards, John decided just to go order take-out. He needed to get out of the flat for a little bit after all. He pulled on his black jacket and glanced at Sherlock again, just to check that he was still there and dormant. There was no telling what the detective might do while he was gone…

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A/N: I sincerely apologize for the late posting. As you all know, first week of school can be incredibly busy, so I wasn't able to update on Friday or Saturday, but here you are! Enjoy, and I promise this time the next chapter will be up Friday. Reviews are much appreciated!

Disclaimer: All credit goes to Moftiss, and Benedict, and Martin, and all of the cast, and of course, Nyah86Productions.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock listened to John breathing loudly from the chair across from his and thanked the gods-that-didn't-exist when the past army doctor left. He watched the man leave, and once he was sure the door was closed, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out Molly's lipstick. He opened it and twisted it until he could see the pinky-purple color.

He hadn't known how long he'd stared at the cosmetic until the door downstairs opened again and John's heavy footsteps ascended the stairs. He quickly twisted the lipstick back down and capped it, covering the metallic outside with his hands. However, he hadn't managed to hide it in time, and John stopped on the threshold of the flat and frowned at Sherlock, his gaze flicking between Sherlock's eyes and his hands.

"What is that?" John asked, setting down the takeout bags on the kitchen table.

Sherlock tried to tuck the lipstick deeper into his hands and shrug off John's question, but he couldn't. John had seen it. "It's nothing." His voice raised in pitch and his eyebrows raised in mock innocence.

"Sherlock, what is that? I can see it still. You're really not as good at this as you would like." John crossed the room and stood in front of Sherlock, giving him a questioning and accusing glare. Without warning, he launched himself at the detective, who was unprepared for the attack, and loosened his hands enough that John could pry the metal-cased lipstick out of his hands.

As Sherlock regained his breath and straightened his suit, sighing in frustration at the army doctor in front of him, who was now studying the lipstick almost as closely as Sherlock had been doing a few moments before.

"Lipstick?" John looked back up at his flatmate and started laughing. He doubled over, grabbing the arm of his own chair for support. His cheeks flushed and his eyes began to water by the time he had regained composure enough to ask Sherlock, "Are you cross-dressing now, or what?" He sniffed and came around to properly sit in his chair.

"Is there a problem with that?" Sherlock asked.

John exhaled a shaky breath, the occasional chuckle slipping past his lips. "No, not at all, I'd just not pegged you as that sort of person…" He fiddled with the lipstick. "So you are?"

"No, John. I am not cross-dressing, that was my Uncle Rudy's area."

"Then what is this?"

Sherlock looked at him with the disbelieving 'are you stupid?' look. "You said so yourself, it's lipstick."

"Yeah, but who's is it?" John uncapped the cosmetic and twisted the cap so he could see the product. "Your new girlfriend's?" He smiled at his on joke.

"It's Molly's." Sherlock's jaw tightened and he recalled his brother's claim. _She's dead._ No, she wasn't. Sherlock still felt strongly that she was alive, somewhere, and in danger. He frowned at John's incredulous expression and tried to defend himself without giving too much away. John had work and a girlfriend of his own to worry about. He didn't need to run around England looking for Molly. "She left it at work. I was going to return it to her."

John didn't believe him for one second. "Sherlock, why do you have Molly's lipstick?"

"I told you, She left it-"

"No, really. Why do you have Molly's lipstick?" He set the cylindrical object down on the table next to him and leaned forward. "Are you two…you know…"

Sherlock shook his head in horror. "God, no!" He knew he sounded like a teenager, but at this point he really couldn't care less. "She left it at work and I was looking for traces of where she might be and I found this in her locker. Now, there may be-"

"Where she might be?" John leaned forward more. "Sherlock, what's going on? Is Molly okay?"

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and closed his mouth. That was one more deduction than he'd expected. He tried to think of something to cover up his slip up.

"Sherlock, where is Molly?"

Sherlock was silent. He could tell John Mycroft's claim that Molly was dead. He could tell John that Molly was on vacation, or sick. Or he could tell John the truth.

"She's missing."

John stiffened. "What?" He blinked. "She's missing? Since when? Why didn't you tell me?" He glared at Sherlock.

"Calm down, please, John. She's been missing since yesterday. Or at least, she hasn't gone to cover her shift since yesterday. I suspect she's actually been missing for three or four days now." He shifted in his chair. "Mycroft called for me yesterday and told me that she was dead, but I couldn't bring myself to believe him."

"Wait, Mycroft thinks Molly is dead." John tilted his head and rubbed his chin. "Didn't you once tell me that your brother was never wrong?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ugh, my brother is usually never wrong. It's probably my biggest quarrel with him since childhood. Most of the time, he wins bets and guessing games because he's usually never wrong. But it this case, I have plenty of evidence that suggests Molly is still alive somewhere. There hasn't been a body reported, there have been no signs that she is dead. Her cat has fresh food, which suggests someone came by in the last twenty-four hours and fed her cat for her; she doesn't typically have anyone do that, therefore, she is being held somewhere and asked her captors to go and feed her cat for her. Simple, really. It's obvious she hasn't been killed…" He brought his fingers back up under his chin, "yet."

"Jesus, Sherlock." John whispered. "Have you told the police?"

"No, of course I haven't told the police. Obviously this occurrence has something to do with national safety or something of that sort, otherwise my brother wouldn't be involved. If the police were to get involved, this would very soon be plastered all over the internet and the media, and that's not what the government wants, particularly not my brother."

"So the government is trying to hide the fact that Molly is still alive?" John wasn't protesting anymore, something for which Sherlock was immensely grateful; instead he was focusing on the important facts in the case.

"Obviously, but from who? Why would they hide her unless…" He stopped, thinking, eyes searching his mind palace, brain steaming as he worked in overload.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer, instead getting up and beginning to pace around the room. "You'd better eat your dinner, John. It will get cold otherwise."

John's attention flicked to the untouched bag of Italian food and nodded. "Right." He searched through the cupboards until he found a clean plate and began serving himself a helping of pasta from the container. He knew there was no use in asking Sherlock if he wanted anything: he was thinking, and when Sherlock was thinking, there was no getting through to him. So instead, he sat down in his chair again and thought, just to himself, about what could've happened to Molly.

Twenty minutes later, John had finished dinner and Sherlock had stopped pacing and was playing his violin by the window. John had gone upstairs to try and get some sleep so he'd be fresh for work the next day. Sherlock drew the bow across the strings absent-mindedly, and thought.

_Why would my brother try to hide the fact that Molly was alive unless the security of the nation would be compromised? What could she possibly have that would compromise the security of the nation? Why is my brother interested? Does it have anything to do with the autopsy reports that were locked on Molly's laptop? Why hasn't she been found yet? I contacted the entirety of my homeless network as soon as I found out, including all of those new recruits. Why haven't they found her?_

When the wrong note sounded from the violin in his hands, Sherlock looked at his fingers in disgust. He'd never made a mistake on that piece before. He set the instrument down.

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Wow. This was actually, believe it or not, a very difficult chapter to write. But I got it done!...A day late. I am so sorry to my wonderful followers who have been waiting for this chapter. School is incredibly tedious and I really would just like to quit and write this for you all, but alas, I cannot... I am not going to make any promises for when the net update will be, because I will probably miss it, but I will try to have it up as soon as possible.

Thank you for the wonderful reviews! I am desperately trying to do the wonderful video justice. (Again, go check out Nyah86Productions' video 'Welcome Back' for Sherlock, it is terrific, and quite the fountain of inspiration!) Please let me know how I'm doing!

All credit goes to Moftiss and Benedict and Martin, and of course, the wonderful Nyah86Productions.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock needed to have a word with his brother. He was angry that Mycroft had told him Molly was dead. Surely he must know that she wasn't. But the question that inhabited Sherlock's mind was "_Why would he lie to me?_" Of all people, Mycroft really shouldn't lie to his little brother, the only other person in the entire world that would catch any lies.

These were the thoughts that brought Sherlock (regrettably) to his older brother's office in the Diogenes Club the following morning. John had gone to work and left Sherlock to think more about Molly, leading him to his current position. Sherlock didn't know where his brother was; there was no evidence he'd been there yet that morning, and his secretary acted like she didn't know anything.

Sherlock had always despised her. For some reason, she seemed desperate to stick around his brother, despite the negative and degrading comments surely sprinkled in every sentence.

When the door finally opened and Mycroft stepped in, Sherlock had moved from one of the chairs with its back facing the door to Mycroft's own chair behind the desk. Mycroft spotted Sherlock seated comfortably in his chair and sighed.

"What is it now, Sherlock?" He closed the door behind him and set his briefcase down on the desk and tried to motion for Sherlock to give up the chair.

Sherlock didn't budge. "I don't know, Mycroft. _You_ tell _me_." He mimicked his brother's words from the initial meeting a few days previous.

Mycroft stopped and blinked, unsure of what to say. Obviously Sherlock knew. He resolved to sit in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk and sighed, crossing his legs and leaning back. Sherlock glared at Mycroft, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. "Why did you tell me she was dead?" His voice was quite, yet threatening.

"For your own safety, Sherlock." It was a simple sentence, but it was completely uninformative, and Sherlock groaned in annoyance.

"How is lying to me about Molly Hooper supposed to keep me safe?"

Mycroft sighed. "This is a matter for the government, brother-mine. It does not concern you."

"Any matter concerning Molly is a matter for me, or at least a matter that I should be aware of while in progress." The words came out at the speed of a deduction, quick and accusing, drawing another ruffled sigh from his older brother.

"Please, Sherlock, I am already dealing with the CIA and their concern on this case, I don't need yours as well." He stood, gesturing for Sherlock to leave, but he didn't instead, he leaned forward and furrowed his brow.

"Case?" He stood as well, but kept his hands on the desk, leaning forward menacingly. "This is a case? How long have you known about this?"

For a second, Mycroft's mouth opened and it looked as if he was planning to deny everything he had said a moment earlier, but he closed his mouth and opened the briefcase he had brought in, retrieving a file. He set the file down on the desk and slid it over to Sherlock, who took a seat again and opened the file.

Inside were a few papers with personal information, a couple of pictures, and a police report relaying a murder from a few weeks prior. Sherlock looked through the file, inspecting each paper long enough to store the information in his mind palace. _Marcus Foster, 38, went missing three weeks ago, but wasn't actively searched for until about one week ago because there was no missing person filed, only Foster's boss was notified. When the police looked for Foster, he was found in the bottom of a skip on the east side of…Dallas, Texas?_ Sherlock read this once, then twice, then once more again to make sure he had in fact read it right. Yes, he had, it said 'Dallas, Texas'. He looked up at Mycroft, who was patiently waiting for Sherlock to finish.

"Dallas, Texas?" Sherlock checked one last time. Yep, he as right. "Why are we on this case if this man died in America?"

"We?" Mycroft put a mock-surprised face on. "_We_ are not on this case, _I_ am on this case. When he was found, his background was checked and it was discovered that he was of British origin. The British government was contacted, his body was preserved and brought here, and Miss Hooper was the unfortunate soul to intercept the body at Bart's Morgue."

"Why unfortunate?" Sherlock scanned the remainder of the files, drinking in the man's personal life and details, including his job and past lovers. "Was his death to remain a secret?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. He hated admitting this, but "We haven't worked out all of the details. The body, as well as Miss Hooper, went missing, along with any trace of an autopsy report. There is no record of an autopsy being performed, even though Miss Hooper would have had enough time with the body on her list to conduct one. Curious, really. We have no idea who may have killed him, but there is strong evidence to support our theory that whoever did kill Mr. Foster was the same person who took his body and Molly from their respective homes." The next comment was quiet, but still projected enough for Sherlock to hear, "Although, it seems their home may be the same place, Miss Hooper does spend an awfully long time there every day."

Sherlock chuckled and set the file down. His next thought made his smile disappear, "Was it Moriarty?"

The look Mycroft gave the younger man was incredulous. "You killed Moriarty, remember?" He took the file and flipped through it himself before tucking it back into the briefcase. "How could he be alive if you saw him shoot himself?"

"I mean, was it Moriarty's criminal web? Moriarty may have had something against Foster and had him killed, and Molly may have discovered what had happened, or at least part of it?" Sherlock's mind palace created and destroyed scenarios, constructing and obliterating ideas as they presented themselves. "Maybe Moriarty didn't know about him at all. Maybe the man was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and the killer didn't want anyone knowing what had happened. It seems a lot simpler that-"

"It wasn't Moriarty's network."

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A/N: Hello! So sorry for the delay. This was going to be a chapter about twice as long, but I suddenly realized how long I was taking on the first half, so here you go. This is part 1 of chapter 6. Huzzah! Thank you to all of the wonderful reviewers, followers, favoriters, and etc.

All credit goes to Moftiss, Cumberbatch, Freeman, and Nyah86Productions (again, go check out her video!)


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as John finished work, he was already out the door and hailing a taxi to Mycroft's office. Sherlock had texted him a twenty minutes previous, as soon as he and Mycroft had come up with something good on Molly's disappearance. Sherlock had told John to meet him at the Diogenes club so that he and Sherlock could head out to get Molly.

John arrived at the all-too-familiar white building and hurried inside, straight to Mycroft's office, avoiding the diplomats' room and staying as quiet as possible to avoid another point against him. Standing at the door, he held his hand up to knock, but decided against it and simply walked inside.

Sherlock and Mycroft looked up as soon as John came inside and Mycroft acknowledged his presence, but Sherlock was the only one to rise, grabbing his long black coat from the rack by the door and herding John back outside of the room and out of the building. It wasn't until they were completely outside that Sherlock said, "I'll explain everything on the way." He hailed another taxi, muttering an address at the driver, and held the door open for John before climbing in himself.

The taxi started off and Sherlock began talking immediately. "Molly is being held captive by two American agents. I thought it was Moriarty's men…somehow…but I was wrong. She is –" He trailed off at the end of the sentence and tried to move on, but John cleared his throat.

"What was that?"

Sherlock shot a glare in John's direction. "Please, John, don't be childish. Like I was saying, she is, I suspect, being interrogated for some reason, I haven't quite worked out all of the details yet, but she performed an autopsy on a Marcus Foster, who went missing some time ago. The autopsy report was never filed and it is password-protected on her computer. My theory is that this autopsy was odd and these American agents found out that she knew what had happened and they kidnapped her to stop her from telling officials."

He looked over at John, who had on his usual expression of 'Fantastic!'

John nodded, obviously impressed. "So we are on our way to where she is?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, my homeless network has been out looking and they spotted two American men alternatingly entering and exiting an apartment building on the east side of town."

John didn't say another word until the taxi had pulled in front of a run-down apartment building. Sherlock got out and handed some folded bills to the driver and asked him to wait. John doubted the man would wait for much longer, but he said nothing.

He and Sherlock headed into the apartment building and up the stairs to the third floor. Here, Sherlock took the lead and walked slowly down the hallway until he came to the number 309. He softly tested the rusted door handle, looking a bit surprised when it twisted easily and the door opened. John observed Sherlock's survey of the room before he took a step inside.

_Table directly ahead, small table to the right, television on the other side of the small table, two chairs facing the television, green, stained, disgusting chairs, magazines scattered all over the floor. Kitchen in the back to the right; counters are probably covered in trash and rotted food, hence some unpleasant stench coming from the kitchen area. Obvious evidence of the presence of two different men, two sizes of footprints in the dust, two different categories of magazines; one was sex-driven (images of scantily-clad women and 'sex secrets' plastered on the front), the other is more intelligent, more business driven (business magazines, new and profiting companies, etc.). Two bedrooms in the back and to the left._

John was looking through the magazines and DVDs and other items littering the sitting area. He then moved to the kitchen, covering his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. Sherlock listened and observed the living conditions, cursing Mycroft for not telling him the truth in the first place. If Mycroft hadn't tried to cover up his government's problems, Sherlock could have found Molly by now and she would have been safe at home, instead of here, in this _Hell-hole._

Sherlock made his way to the back, but went to the left instead of the right, observing the two doors. One was obviously more used, the door handle was more dulled and the dust layer on the floor in front of the door was almost gone, where as the other door looked newer (well, as new as it could look in an ancient place like this) and the floor in front was not as frequently travelled. Sherlock opted to wait on trying the door handles and turned to join John, but John had already finished inspecting the kitchen and was right behind Sherlock.

Sherlock whispered, "My brother is waiting on stand-by in case things don't go according to plan."

"What does 'according to plan' entail?" John whispered back. There was a squeaking sound.

"Well, not getting caught is at the top of the list –" Sherlock was interrupted by a voice that was very much _not John's._

"Too late."

The detective turned around to find the muzzle of a gun pointed directly at his forehead.

* * *

A/N: DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUN! Hahaha! And there you go. This is chapter 6 part two, but it will still be called chapter 7...because I said so. Anyways, thank you so much for all of the lovely reviews! Please feel free to leave them at any time!

All credit to Moftiss, Benedict, Martin, and Nyah86Productions

See you all next week!


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